


To Call Thee Mine

by illyriantremors



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Feysand Wedding, Fluff, Mor is crazy, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:39:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyriantremors/pseuds/illyriantremors
Summary: Set after the war with Hybern has ended, Feyre and Rhys decide they’re already mates and High Lord & Lady, but now there is still just one ceremony left between them to do. With no better moment than after a victory in war during which they fought for one another, they decide to commit themselves to each other one last time and have the entire Inner Circle there to witness it. AKA it’s a wedding fic people.





	To Call Thee Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written wayyyyyy back last Christmas as part of a fic exchange and I am only.... just now posting it. Whoops! I’m tidying up some things this week, so I figured I’d post this now before I forget.

Only the Inner Circle is asked to come.

Well, the Inner Circle and her sisters, of course.

Elain could never have stayed away regardless. She has flowers to bring. Night blooming water lilies, jessamine, and moonflower are woven together into a bewitching arrangement of whites and magentas and midnight blues for Feyre to carry. She drove Lucien wild stitching it together all night.

It compliments the dress beautifully.

Feyre is in Morrigan’s dressing chamber, which she’s borrowed for the evening. She would have preferred to stay home and do it, but Morrigan insists a little tradition never hurt anyone. That and she wants to be there to see the stupid grin she knows will break free over her cousin’s face when he sees what she’s done to his mate. Sees her for the first time.

And _oh_ how she has succeeded in her task like never before.

Morrigan has swept back the top of Feyre’s head in an elegant display of knots and twists that pull together behind her where the rest is allowed to fall loosely down her back in soft waves. There are small gems tucked here and there that Morrigan knows will catch the moonlight off the balcony when they go back to the House of Wind afterwards.

On her face, Feyre’s cheeks are a smooth pink blush - just the lightest touch of it to warm up her crystalline grey eyes. She convinces Mor of an equally soft shade of the color for her lips and the girls laugh as they joke about how long the color will last on those lips after the party is over later on that night.

But the dress - the dress is what will undo him. Of that both girls are sure.

It’s constructed much the same way her Starfall dress was. Slim fitting through the bust and waist before gently floating away from Feyre’s body so that all her curves are seen even if the long sleeves add a modest touch. And it drips in celestial shades of black and grey, sapphire and diamond, little hints of deepest purple fading in and out of the fabric until Feyre looks like the stars glimmering across the night sky as she walks, the dress turning her into the night itself.

This is the High Lady of the Night Court, they think as they look at her and Nesta hands her the silver crown to wear that will match Rhys’s and Elain presents her stunning bouquet and Morrigan pretends not to get weepy in the corner.

The temple is lit with vibrant torches and pits of warm fire that cast a soft glow over the room. The way the light plays out on Feyre’s dress as she turns is hard not to stare at. But then Rhys is there, brothers not far behind, and he doesn’t quite… know how to… handle her.

Across the room, the Inner Circle shares little looks as Rhys and Feyre stare at each other because they _know_. They know what this night means.

Rhys puts his hands in his pockets like he always does when he’s nervous. If he moves, he will cease to exist because one step closer to her and he’ll burn himself alive with the magic threatening to pour out of him just from the way her scent catches and lingers on his skin.

He thought finding her on Fire Night had been a gift from the Cauldron. He thought saving her in Amarantha’s despised court had been a blessing. He thought the day she claimed the Night Court as her home and him as her mate had been nothing short of a miracle.

But _now?_ Now he understands that this woman is life incarnate, his perfect counter. This moment - it is destiny crafted from the heavens itself. It has to be. Because he’s looking at her like he can see every drop of blood she shed for him and she’s looking at him like she can feel every horror he endured and none of it matters because right now she is beautiful and he is her glory in darkness and there is no going back from this point. There is only them.

Only his violet eyes and her deep blonde hair and the flowers blooming in her hand that only reveal themselves under a dark, piercing night sky like the one the temple opens up to above them. Only the love that called to them both and never stopped working until they found their way to each other.

Mates.

And Rhys has never been more proud of Feyre and how far she has come.

Cassian smirks.

Morrigan beams.

Nesta stands tall and proud.

Elain folds herself into Lucien’s shoulder with the lightest sniffle that he tucks away for her.

And Azriel’s shadows sing the music of this night, dancing off into shadows to reach the furthest corners of the earth where Amren might hear it and whisper _Good for you, boy._

The ceremony is kept simple. Traditional even. Rhys asked if it could be that way. There is enough of the Night Court’s pomp and circumstance and fae rituals to shroud them eternally between all of the details crowding around them within the temple’s circular walls.

He wanted to give Feyre a chance to have it her way, to honor the piece of her that remained human, the heart he heard beating in the forest while he was buried under a mountain of dirt and ash a million miles away.

And she agreed to it gladly. In some ways, _mate_ was more than enough and never enough at all. Was it possible to ever have enough of him she wondered most often. As she steps towards him, takes in his tall, lean form clothed in darkness, his wings spread in a glorious ache that she longs to touch and fly and caress, she realizes that - _no_. She will never have enough of him. If the Cauldron granted her her mate in all his forms, her hunger would never abate, would never satiate and give way to a fullness her life has been void of for far too long. Just when Feyre thinks she has enough of him, he opens a new window into his soul for her to climb through and she sees more, more, more of this imperfect man who saved her.

And she wants to consume him all.

So in the temple, they join hands. They offer every little piece of themselves they have already given: enemies, partners, friends, lovers, mates and now, slipping the rings onto one another’s hands and saying the vows they’ve longed to make, the ones that kept them alive in the middle of death and bloodshed, they add a new depth to the bond - _man and wife._

With each exchange, the fires burn a little brighter. The temple feels a little warmer. The smiles stretch a little wider. Velaris hums a little stronger.

And then he is kissing her, his wings sliding around her in slow motion so that all may see, but none may truly know what this is except him and her. And that bond between them - that wicked, sharp, sensuous thing - threatens to knock them all on their feet. Every last one of them feels the power flooding off of it in droves as Feyre pulls Rhys deeper into the kiss. They could drag the heavens through hell and out the other side without getting so much as one single dark blemish on its divinity with that kiss as Feyre takes him deeply.

_Mate. My mate._

_My friend._

_Rhysand._

_My_ husband.

_Mine._

_M - m - m - m…_

Endless. It is endless between them.

The House of Wind above is silent, but the city knows. The city knows what their High Lord and Lady have done. And they celebrate it with wild enthusiasm.

Feyre hears it first. She would recognize that melody the city sends anywhere. How it sweeps through her, soaks into her skin like a kiss you can’t give back. How it soars to take the pains away and replace it with jubilant triumph.

Her hand flies to Rhys’s sitting at the table next to her and her fork drops. He hears it too. _Feels_ it. Between them, a rush of memory flows down the bond like honey. What once was a nightmare of darkness in a prison cell is now Feyre’s first taste of freedom. The first night she felt connected to her mate even if she didn’t quite know it yet.

She will never forget that music. It has been a ghost haunting her for ages and she will never wish it away. That music saved her. The music bound her. That music brought her up, up, up to the rich splendor of night where Rhysand called home and it is hers now.

Tenderness. A soothing caress. And unyielding love. The bond thrums with it as Rhys pulls Feyre up from the table, no questions asked, and pulls her into a dance. Piece by piece, the rest of the world melts away.

Rhys holds Feyre’s hand against his chest while they slowly turn and from the table, Morrigan sits with that devilish gleam in her eye remembering how her cousin first toppled into her room in a broken mess proclaiming her his mate and wondering by the Mother how she could ever understand the depth of his love for her - for this woman cradled against him now more precious than the rubies of the earth or the life waters of the sea - and now look at him. Morrigan wants the whole world to look at him and his mate and know as she does what this moment is.

Her magic unravels the sleeves. They don’t see it. Not at first. Their eyes are either shut entirely as they lose sense of the world or they’re too glued on each other while Rhys counts his mate’s freckles and Feyre focuses on the citrus rolling off his chest, inhaling deeply into his tunic. One stitch at a time, her sleeves disappear until her arms are bare save for those magnificent, inky blue tattoos swirling over her skin that name her his equal. The ink glides down to her fingertips to connect with Rhys and at his kiss, the bond connecting them travels across her hand to his and his tunic too is rolled back so that his tattoos are exposed, a perfect match.

Morrigan sighs happily, relaxing into her chair. She could watch them for a very long time she decides.

Cassian quips that if she isn’t careful, her face will soon be fixed in a permanently dopey gesture and then no one will want to dance with her at Rita’s anymore. A shower of spiced rice cascades over his face and by the time Nesta has wiped it off of him, neither is sure if it is Morrigan’s magic or Azriel’s shadows that moved faster. Elain’s endearing snort is a sound that has them all loosening into peals of laughter as she snuggles into Lucien. She may as well have not taken her own chair at this dinner table.

A pleasant chatter consumes the evening and they all pretend not to notice the moment Rhys and Feyre disappear off the balcony and out of sight altogether, two stars dancing on air through the clouds and mist of darkness they bring together towards home.

Towards each other.

The High Lord and Lady of the Night.

xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It's been a long time since I read this one and I don't remember it much, so feel free to let me know your thoughts. <3


End file.
